The room spins. The lights strobe. The music pounds so hard that it’s a sledgehammer against my senses. When Adriana finally shifts her weight and lifts off me, my pulse is a wild, thundering drum solo in my skull. My hearing flickers in and out like a dying signal.
I melt back into the couch. My hand moves on its own, dragging across the cushions until my fingers brush the sweat-damp fabric of Micah’s shirt at his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch.Doesn’t move. He just sits there, slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head hanging low between his shoulders.
He doesn’t need to look at me, and I don’t need to say a word. We’ve been here too many times to pretend any of this is new.
We each buckle our pants back up, motions sluggish and a little clumsy. I drag in a breath, and it burns. Emma needs to stay away from me. Because this is what’s left of me. This is all I’ve got to offer. A body that doesn’t know how to stop shaking. A mind that can’t shut up long enough to sleep. Hands that only remember violence and needles and intimacy born of control.
I press my palms over my eyes until the colors come. Reds and golds, like sunset bleeding out. For a fleeting moment, it reminds me of a summer I never wanted to end. Nolan’s laugh suddenly cuts through the space, that cruel, booming sound I loathe with everything in me. He’s always winning when it comes to his deals. And me? I’m just his prize dog.
Still performing.
Still owned. Still fucking leashed.
I lean back against the couch, staring out at the skyline through the window. The city’s glowing and alive. Every light out there feels like a version of me that could’ve been. One that didn’t lose everything. One that never met Adriana. One that didn’t ruin Emma or break her beautiful heart. My eyes sting, but it’s not from the drugs.Not entirely.
The party roars on, and I sit in the middle of it all, trying not to feel. Trying not to think about how she looked at me like I was worth saving. Because I know the truth. I was.
Once.
But that version of me died a long time ago, somewhere between a trigger pull and a kiss that tasted like fucking poison.
The night blurs when more alcohol and drugs enter my system. One minute I’m on that couch, the next I’m being dragged through the penthouse by the back of my hoodie. Thehallway tilts, lights streaking like someone smeared the world. My pulse is slowing, too heavy, too thick.
I’m scared.
Micah’s ahead of me, stumbling down the stairs, eyes glassy and red. Adriana’s talking to someone, her laugh sounding like broken fucking glass. We end up in the back of the limo again. The doors slam shut, and the bass from the party fades into the distance until it’s just the sound of tires on wet asphalt.
Micah slumps beside me, head against my shoulder, breathing shallow. Nolan’s on the phone, voice confident and amused. Adriana hums along to whatever song’s playing softly through the speakers, pretending she didn’t just pretty much assault me again in front of a room full of people.
My stomach twists.
I wish Emma didn’t fucking see me tonight. Because she’s not safe. Not from this. Not fromthem. Micah mutters something I can’t quite understand.
I’m so fucking sorry, man.
The lights outside smear past, and I stare until I can’t tell if what’s burning in my chest is guilt, or the last of whatever’s left of my soul trying to claw its way out.
Chapter ten
EMMA EASTON
The room is gray with early light when I wake. Heather’s still asleep beside me, one arm flung across the blanket, her face turned toward the window. She looks peaceful.
I feel wrecked.
My stomach twists hard, a sharp reminder that I cried until I made myself sick last night. I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her, and barely make it to the bathroom before the nausea hits. It comes in waves. I grip the cold edge of the counter and breathe through it, eyes squeezed shut, willing my body to calm down.
When it passes, I rinse my mouth, brush my teeth, and stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are swollen. My hair’s a mess. I look like someone who’s been hollowed out and put back togetherveryincorrectly.
Back in the room, I cross to the window and pull the curtain aside. The city looks washed out and distant with the heavy cloud cover.
I wonder where he is.
Did he even make it back to a hotel? Or did he stay with someone—some woman who doesn’t know who he used to be?
He’s supposed to be getting better. But he wasn’t sober. I saw it in his eyes, in the way he swayed when he walked, like hewas balancing on the edge of something sharp and final.
How much time does he even have left?
